


At Attention

by Yassoda



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Army AU, Kink, M/M, Mycroft is M, War, army!au, soldier!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:15:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1611437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yassoda/pseuds/Yassoda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes does not fit in the army. Definitely not. But when Mycroft forces him to stay there he has to find a way to cope. Captain John H. Watson might help with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In training

The army.  
Sherlock despises the whole concept.  
Of course it is necessary to have one for a country, display of power, show-offs the lot of them. But a Holmes could not be stuck into a worse system.  
Mycroft had side-stepped the whole ordeal, sly as he is. When he was the right age he was already needed elsewhere. He could have pulled a few strings to get his brother out of it as well, but no. He hadn't. On the contrary. He'd ensured the younger Holmes would spend a long time there, to get him out of his way, out of worrying range. And while the army took care of Sherlock, Mycroft could concentrate fully on his schemes and highly classified paperwork.

It's hell.  
They aren't supposed to think. They are supposed to obey without question, and to work as a group, as a team. Sherlock is unable to do that. Can't shut down his brain, his thoughts. The tedious work that puts others in a dull and zombified state of mind only affects his body, making him fall limbless on his bunk at the end of the day, his brain whizzing on, noticing, noticing, noticing everything, how Tanner's shoes hurt him horribly although the man stays perfectly stoic, used to pain, trained himself to accept it, probably likes it in certain circumstances, how Samson's girlfriend cheats on him, but he hasn't realized it yet, even though her letters are less frequent but have more text, more inane details, (dull) and her writing changed too, look at those 'T's, yelling out guilt, and the letter smells faintly of peppermint, and Samson is ALLERGIC to peppermint for crying out loud, how Major Collins hopes very hard for a promotion and is willing to spend long nights in the Marshall's private quarters, no doubt scrubbing his carpet if the scraped state of his knees is any indication, which it is.  
He knows every life aspect of his comrades, everything they do, everything they want, but he doesn't know them. And he doesn't want to. Relationships. Tedious, dull, BORING. Just like what they do every day, just like when he has to stand at attention for hours on end. He wants to get OUT. Training is TORTURE, same thing every day, why train to break down and reconstruct a gun a THOUSAND TIMES when he knew how to when he glanced at it, why make the bed so square when they would go back to sleep into it a few hours later, why do the same inane dull dull DULL things OVER AND OVER again? And why globalize reprimands?!

At first, after truly trying for one whole day (agony), Sherlock had done everything possible to get kicked out. Talking back, disobeying direct orders, deducing and exposing the embarrassing details of his superiors' lives, being rude to officers, being sloppy, being disrespectful, "loosing" his gun/uniform/material, getting "lost" during outside exercises, and the whole company had paid for it. Less sleep (don't need sleep, but body more easily broken, more feeble, and the others have grand difficulties with that kind of treatment) less food (don't need food, but same problems as sleep deprivation), lesser quality of food (don't care, food is food, but the others complain), staying longer hours (tedious), standing at attention even more (mind palace very useful in those occasions), getting yelled at and insulted (distracting, people look so stupid when they turn red and huff and puff with military approved anger), being on guard for many week-ends in a row (tedious but don't care, don't have anyone at home to go back to, unlike the others who wallow pathetically – sentiment!). His comrades in arms were quick to hate him for his behavior who got them all into trouble. And they filled in complaints, all the better since his goal was to get kicked out. His superiors filled in complaints. Everyone filled in complaints. But Mycroft, the grand puppeteer, would not let him leave. He would not get kicked out. He did keep on trying, he was stubborn, and when the officers realized that group solidarity was not high on Sherlock's priorities, they stopped punishing the cohort and just put him in prison, warning him that if his attitude didn't improve he'd spend his whole military career in there.

Prison was worse than the army.

There was NOTHING.

Nothing to analyze except the steps of the jailer. (One day he'd hurt his leg. One day he was wearing too small shoes.) Nothing to look at besides the walls. And the food (the cook was feeling depressed lately).  
Dull dull dull DULL DULL!

When he was finally free, Sherlock did his best to stay far from any cell. He learned to act, to seemingly behave, to work with others, to stay within the limits, always dangerously close to the unacceptable, and if he often mutters deductions under his breath, the other soldiers let him. It's better than having him wreck havoc.  
Holmes occasionally explodes into fits of restlessness, sass, and insults everyone around him, but as long as they coop him up and don't let any officers notice, it's okay. And if the officers do notice, they more often than not turn a blind eye. Courtesy of Mycroft. Again.

Sherlock's new goal is to get out of training. To be deemed qualified and go where the action is. But with a soldier who deduces your orders before you even give them and tells you why they are stupid and why they will fail, making you reconsider your whole strategy and, why not, your whole life, it isn't easy to find a leader that isn't squeamish. No one wants Holmes on their team, even though he's brilliant and gives excellent advice. He discredits his superiors, and in the army, that just doesn't work. He'd need a perfect leader, a captain sure of his every move and action, someone brilliant on the field who could take Sherlock's advice without seeming discredited in front of the other men. But does such a person even exist?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo I hope it isn't too obvious I don't really know what I'm doing. x)  
> I have little to no knowledge of the British army system (and I'm lazy so I didn't research a lot) so if you spot anything wrong please tell me. My English isn't perfect so if you spot anything wrong please tell me.  
> I'm sloppily writing this on a whim of inspiration. You can expect smuttiness in later chapters if I get to that point.  
> If you've read this far, please feel the urge to comment, be it positive or negative! :P


	2. John H. Watson

John Watson is a doctor. To serve his country, he enrolled in the army and was quickly found to be efficient, obedient, intelligent and extremely useful. He was promoted captain of the Special Retrieval Regiment B (SRR-B) and given a few men to go on precise missions, delicate missions, missions to exchange sick and wounded prisoners of war, repatriation of prisoners of war, rescue of hostages and soldiers, interventions to protect displaced persons. When there were no such missions, they would integrate other groups to protect and help during humanitarian interventions. John saved many lives and lost many others.  
His men are few but select. Most of them have medical training as well. Lieutenant Anderson, young man, basically medically trained, a good shot, very smooth and sly, can move without being noticed.  
Lieutenant Donovan, a brave woman, can shoot straighter than any of them, has a lot of courage and a lot of endurance, is able to think like the enemy, is very useful during negotiations.  
Lieutenant Lestrade, strong, fit man, ready to brawl, obeys quickly, is looked upon by his comrades. Very often second in command.  
They've recently lost two good soldiers, lieutenant Stamford and second-lieutenant Frank.  
Stamford has resigned, and has gone back to London to become a teacher in med school. The stress was bad for his heart.  
Frank is dead. She was so young. Barely out of the Training Corps. She was a good soldier, would've been promoted soon, Watson was going to recommend her. She could've been a good leader. She always noticed the things around her before anyone else saw them. Except that one time. Landmine. And no one had been able to save her.  
So it's trying not to be too harsh in his judgment that John goes to interview the two new recruits colonel Hudson has selected for him.  
He opens the first file.  
Lieutenant Molly Hooper. Good field experience. Also a doctor. Will replace Stamford very well on that dimension. He enters the room.  
A mousey and anxious looking small woman salutes him swiftly. He reiterates.

"At ease."

She relaxes her stance.

"Lieutenant Hooper, pleased to meet you, I am captain John Watson. I've read your file and you have the skills necessary to become an important member of the SRR-B. But do you want it and can you handle it? Civilian lives are often between our hands, misstepping can be fatal to everyone involved, you need a will of steel and a strong mind to distance yourself from inevitable failures so you don't come out broken."

The young woman's face hardened at his words and she clicks her heels and stands as tall as she can once he's finished.

"Yes, sir! I've already been responsible for many lives and I know what it's like to lose men. I suppose it's different when you lose a civilian but I am able to cope, sir!" she says forcefully. "I truly want to join you for I think what the SRR do is admirable and very important in time of war. I wish to join SRR-B sir, if you deem me competent!"

Her vehemence pleases John. She is really convinced of her choice, and her file is good, which is what mostly matters.

"Hooper, welcome on SRR-B."

"Thank you, sir!" she says, relief and satisfaction evident on her face.

"Glad not to have to travel all the way back to the main base?" he smirks.

"That too, sir. But mostly glad you didn't reject me because I look small and weak."

"Hooper, with your previous experience on the field, I have no doubt about your strength."

"Thank you sir."

"Upstairs, third room to the right. Same room as lieutenant Donovan. You two share the woman's dormitory, so take any bunk you like. You saw the cafeteria when you came in. Meals are scheduled like at the main base unless specific orders are issued. It's just the SRR-B here, groups of two take turns for different chores. You pair up with me, a chart is available in the kitchen to check your duties, you can go and add your name next to mine later. Meanwhile, please get installed."

"Yes, thanks again, sir."

Salutes are exchanged and Molly Hooper is dismissed. John is pleased with this new recruit. She fumbles with the door knob and stumbles up the stairs, but all in all, between her experience and medical knowledge, he feels she'll quickly become invaluable.  
Now for that other recruit.

~~~

Sherlock is pacing in the room. Finally, FINALLY Mycroft has been able to pull the right strings to get him out of the officer cadets, out of training, in a proper unit, and a quite interesting one at that. SRR. Special Retrieval Regiment. He'll finally be expected to use his brain, to learn everything about a situation to approach it as well as he can. Gods he's been waiting for this. And now the captain is stalling. Where is this infamous John H. Watson? (What does the H stand for? Irrelevant question. Will find out in time probably.)  
Scurrying steps go by the door. Someone light carrying something heavy, luggage most likely. Came from a room further down. No doubt a new recruit. Sherlock frowns. If that other person going upstairs with luggage is a new recruit, which it is, and has already been accepted, will they need him here? SRR units are small and select. He's good, but his file... Not so much. He couldn't bear to go back in training. He'd have to collapse the system to make Mycroft kick him out, and his brother just might put him in prison to keep him safe instead. Stupid overprotective git. Nothing to do in prison. Growing different types of mould in the food can only occupy him for so long.

Sure steps. Heavier person, not carrying anything. Typical military stride. Captain Watson opens the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SRR is invented. As before, I have very very little knowledge of all the army stuff. If something doesn't make sense, either point it out or decide that in the magical world of fanfictions and unicorns it is acceptable to overlook it. :P  
> (Comments obviously welcome)


	3. First Impressions

John is browsing Holmes' file as he opens the door. Impressive set of skills. Truly impressive. Is all that even possible? Sure, he's met observant people before, and people who had incredibly accurate 'gut feelings' and saved him in extremis from dangerous situations, but this man... It's written this man can read a person and know everything there is to know about them and their intentions in one glance. He has invaluable chemistry knowledge. He has more stamina than the norm. He can go weeks with no food or sleep, and still function above average. He understands and analyzes problems with such speed and logic his strategies have yet to fail. But despite all that, he's been stuck in the Officer Cadet Training Units for much longer than anyone John has ever known. No discipline. No group awareness. No respect for authority, no respect for the queen, no respect for 'lesser intellects' aka no respect for anyone. Talks back. Disputes the logic of orders. Disputes his superior's decisions. Sloppy. Went to prison for 28 days. 177 complaints filled in. Never kicked out. Why?  
John glances up.  
And up.

The tall, lean figure standing at attention radiates of restlessness and intelligence. The captain finds two incredible blue-green eyes staring straight back at him. He salutes and snaps the usual "At ease!" Holmes does not go less rigid. Stressed then. No wonder, with a file like that. Why colonel Hudson recommended him is a mystery. The SRR soldiers have to be perfectly in sinc for missions to go well. One stray dog and everything could go to hell. Of course, if Holmes is so good, he'd take that into account... But it does say 'no group awareness'...

"Second-lieutenant Holmes, I am captain John Watson."

"A pleasure, captain."

Silence.

John gestures vaguely with Holmes' file.

"I've just read this. You have quite the reputation."

"Indeed sir."

Holmes is all but rolling his eyes. Nice of him to refrain. Of course, John knows he's stating the obvious. But he doesn't really know what to say. That file is equal parts amazing and disastrous.  
The silence stretches on awkwardly. Holmes stays perfectly still. He seems dreadfully bored. John shuffles and thumbs his was through the file once more. He suddenly straightens and walks stiffly to stand right in front of the soldier.

"You're putting me in quite an uncomfortable position you know."

"Sir?" asks Holmes almost scornfully.

As if he doesn't know why John is having doubts. Should he involve this brilliant man? Hudson seems to think he can be useful. Then again, Holmes has contacts higher up. The colonel could have been 'encouraged' to recommend him.

"Do you know why I’m hesitating, second-lieutenant?"

Sherlock has to pinch himself not to roll his eyes. Of course he knows why. Obviously Watson is having doubts about involving him at all. No doubt the man thinks he can be useful but he doesn't want such a handful in his team.  
But the military like power plays, so instead of saying so and being sent away with 80% probability, (to avoid), Sherlock stands at attention, eyes forward, and answers:

"I'm not exactly sure, sir."

The captain starts pacing.

"Your file is by far, and I mean by really far, the most impressive and disastrous I've ever seen. I could really use a soldier like you, and yet I’ve a good mind not to take you."

"May I ask why, sir?"

Watson steps directly into Holmes’ personal space, his face an inch away from the other man’s.

"You know why. You’re undisciplined. You talk back. You don’t follow orders."

"I don’t follow stupid orders, sir."

Watson takes a step back, physically displaying his surprise.

"Oh? And what about your oath?"

The tall man stands straighter, a glint in his eye. He states:  
"I, Sherlock Holmes, swear by Almighty God that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, her heirs and successors and that I will as in duty bound honestly and faithfully defend Her Majesty, her heirs and successors in person, crown and dignity against all enemies and will observe and obey all (relevant) orders of Her Majesty, her heirs and successors and of the generals and officers set over me. And lah-di-dah. I learned the words. But I still don't obey stupid orders. You will notice I added 'relevant' in my oath."

"That is against procedure, Holmes."

"Yessir," the second-lieutenant says with a tinge of annoyance, as if he would rather say something in the lines of 'Obviously' instead.

A pause.

"Did you actually say that during your actual oath?"

"Yessir."

And suddenly, John is fighting very hard not to laugh. Holmes stays at attention, looking straight forwards, but the hint of a smirk appears on his face.

"And it went unnoticed?"

"Yessir."

"I can't believe it. What a smartass."

Holmes lifts an eyebrow.  
"I suppose so, sir."

"I've a good mind to report that, but I have a feeling that it wouldn't affect your career much."

Holmes doesn't answer, but suddenly looks a little nervous.

"What is it?"

"If you report this, they might send me to Colchester, sir."

"Return to basic military training. Yes I see why someone who's already spent so much time as an officer cadet would want to avoid that."

"Yessir, terribly dull."

A short pause. Then John tilts his head on the side.

"Convince me."

Holmes stills. He seems to stand even taller suddenly.

"Excuse-me?"

"Convince me I should take you."

Holmes focuses on him. His eye glints dangerously. He smirks.

"Ah, but you've already made your decision haven't you."

It's a statement, not a question. John lifts his eyebrows.

"Yes, the doctor, the caretaker, the soldier, the pawn, that isn't all there is to John Watson. You're intrigued. This 'convince me' nonsense is just an excuse to verify my 'abilities' as I believe they've put it in that file. You want to know what I've observed about you. Curious. But no doubt you know that I should be reluctant to tell you, I've been reprimanded for being 'disrespectful' countless times and in so many different ways I couldn't possibly recall them all – if I had an average brain, that is. Tell me captain Watson, is it disrespectful if I tell you that you are left handed, you favor your left leg slightly, you are currently single, you grew up in London and stayed there until you enrolled, graduated from medical school, Saint Bartholomew or Imperial College I expect, ah, Barts it is then, that you've chosen a military career quite late in your studies, for ethical, self-righteous reasons – the country, those soldiers who need people like you – and perhaps also to prove yourself to an older sibling, am I wrong, no I'm not."

Holmes loses his rigid stance as he talks, looks at John with such an intensity the captain has to repress a shiver. Oh.  
Holmes starts pacing and... Twirling in a flamboyant display of restlessness. His eyes stay fixed on the doctor.

"The recruit you interviewed before me was perfect, you accepted him or her after only a few minutes, but you still came to see me, which means you need one more soldier to have a fully functional team. I am not cut out for the job, my attitude is dreadful, and yet I am perfect for the job, my observation skills would quickly become invaluable. You are a confident man John Watson. You think you can gain my obedience. You have faced difficult, bratty recruits already, and it went well. That, along with my abilities, is why I was sent here in the first place, and I wasn't sent to RRS-A, C or D, I was sent to B, because of you. They believe higher up that you can tame me. Foolish? Perhaps. You had decided to take me, now tell me captain, have you changed your mind?"

Holmes ends his tirade facing away from John, through the window. His hands are once more clamped behind his back and he is a little breathless from speaking so fast and so much. John stares.  
That was... surprising, impossible, HOW..? Did someone tell him? Second-lieutenants do not have access to their superior's files and personal details!  
The man blinks and realizes he'd been biting his tongue in an effort not to gawk. He lets it go and moves it around, checking for blood. No blood. Good. He opens his mouth, and Holmes flinches imperceptibly.

There it comes, expects Sherlock. Same predictable reaction from the same type of dull military men. Spluttering, yelling, promise of one more complaint in his file, exclusion. As usual. Prison? Perhaps. Colchester? Most likely. Mycroft can do his damn best, Sherlock can hope for miracles, but he cannot hold his tongue in check. Not when he's provoked into using his deduction skills. And he cannot manipulate Watson's simple mind into thinking him acceptable for the job, not anymore, not after that outburst. He belittles himself. Watson would've taken him. He should've shut the hell up. Now all the captain will say is 'Out!' or 'Piss off!' or...

"Brilliant."

What.  
Sherlock slowly turns around, his eyes widening, searching for traces of sarcasm on the doctor's honest face. He finds none.

"What?"

"Most brilliant. Quite extraordinary," reiterates Watson, stiff but sincere.

Sherlock blinks. Unexpected. Odd. Quite shocking in fact.  
Small silence.

"Thank you." he finally says.

Watson looks at him sharply.

"Sir." Sherlock adds as an afterthought.

The captain's eyes soften, but keep a glint of military sternness mixed with... Really? Profound admiration? Not the slightest hint of anger?

"You look surprised, Holmes."

Confirm, no anger. Sherlock blinks again.

"People don't usually say that, sir."

"What do they say?"

"Fuck off."

Short bark of laughter. The sound registers in Sherlock's chest, clenching something there. Unknown sensation. File for later analysis.  
Watson walks towards him.

"I'm still having doubts about how on earth I'm going to gain your obedience, but I hope we can learn to trust each other, and that you'll grow to respect me back."

Sherlock can't find anything to say, so he just nods.

"Let me be clear Holmes, you are on probation. You are new, this is your first field job," John catches a look on Holmes' face and lifts his eyebrows. "Well, your first officially registered field job then, and your file is still quite dreadful. I'll see if we can keep you. It largely depends on you, and if you'll be able to control yourself and work with the group. Men's dormitory is upstairs, second room to the right. You'll meet lieutenants Lestrade and Anderson. You will pair up with Lestrade for chores such as cooking, cleaning, filing the supplies. Chart in the kitchen, add your name next to his this evening."

John makes to exit, Holmes still frozen behind him. He stops at the door and salutes.

"I hope we can work together. It would be a honor. Dismissed!"

Holmes snaps out of it, salutes, heaves up his bag and leaves the room with five long strides.  
The door closes.  
John sighs and leans against the wall. He feels a grin spread across his face. Extraordinary indeed. And a fucking pain in the arse. Untamable. Wild intelligence.  
What on earth did he just get into?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kay, had fun writing this, a little stressed cause it's their first meeting so it has to be good, heh. Hope it's satisfying!  
> All my knowledge about London and the British Army comes from crappy half-assed Internet researches and my flamboyant imagination. If I write something wrong, tell me so I can change it!  
> Comments are nice! <3


	4. Integrating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They eat supper.  
> It doesn't really go well.

Getting installed is uneventful. Acknowledgement and quick analyze of the other recruits. Nothing terribly surprising there.  
Supper prepared by Donovan and Anderson. Adequate, according to Sherlock. A little too salty. They are fighting. Obviously. They have some kind of romantic/sexual relationship. Always complicated when having to work together, or so he's observed.  
He doesn't say this out loud. It wouldn't bode well with his integration, he thinks. Then again, he can never tell.  
He's sitting between Anderson (on his right) and the small Hooper woman. She's the other new one. It seems she hopes to be able to use that fact to establish a social connection between them. Not terribly interested. She stopped trying with the conversation starters after three onomatopoeic answers, and she is now sharing her experience with Lestrade, glancing covertly at Sherlock now and then.  
Sally Donovan is facing him across the table, between Lestrade and Watson. She acted more hostile towards the newcomers than anyone else. Feels bad/guilty for replacing her old comrades so quickly. Sentiment; foolish. And socially hindering as well. She refuses to talk to Lestrade for engaging so enthusiastically with 'Molly' (who already calls him 'Greg'. Seems like they get on famously.), she isn't talking to Anderson for whatever obscure couple fight they are having, and she definitely isn't talking to Watson since he was the one to find replacement recruits so quickly. So they are both there, face to face, cutting the table in two, a wall of gruff silence. Preferable to conversation at any rate. It stays like this until Lestrade shifts his attention to Sherock, eagerly followed by Hooper.

"So, where have you been at before the SRR? Emergency Med troops like Molly?"

"Oh no, no we weren't in the same division," she inputs.

"Oh. So where were you?" repeats Lestrade with an encouraging smile when Sherlock doesn't answer.

Well if he must.

"Officer Cadet Training Units, as you could have deduced from me being a second-lieutenant," he says curtly.

"Oh, so you're really new to this ey! The last second-lieutenant we saw here already had eleven months worth of field experience," justifies Lestrade.

"Good for him I presume."

"Her."

It's Donovan. She slams her fork down with the word. Her expression: contained fury. Avoid outburst if possible.

"My mistake," offers Sherlock.

It works, at least to redirect the wrath. She glares at Lestrade before roughly standing up to get some more water.

"Geez, what's got into her?" Lestrade, directed to Anderson.

The latter looks up with a falsely unconcerned look and a light but defensive tone of voice.

"Don't know."

Lie.  
Well, partial lie, though he doesn't know it. He hasn't realized she isn't solely angry because of him. Overestimates his importance.

She comes back and nearly slams the water on the table. Watson jumps and gives her a dark look. Amusing. They are only six. This is like a family. Papa John, big brother Greg, squabbling incestuous siblings Sally and Phil, newborn Molly. Sherlock personally refuses to participate. God.

A moment of tense silence. Then Donovan speaks once more. Aggressively.

"Isn't it strange to jump from training directly to something as advanced and delicate as the SRR?"

It's directed at Sherlock, but it's mostly meant for Watson, who doesn't notice and is still eating steadily through the 'drama'.

"What do you mean by 'strange'?" he asks cooly.

"I mean we don't usually take amateurs," she snaps back.

Watson straightens at that. Interesting. Won't stand for piques between soldiers.

"Donovan," he snaps.

"Well, she has a point, doc," silently puts in Anderson, gaining an appreciative glance from Donovan. Taking her side, compensating for their personal fight. Predictable.

"Keep your judgement for after you've seen him work, why don't cha?"

Oh, it seems Lestrade extended his liking Hooper to liking both new recruits. How irrationally generous of him.

"I'm just saying," shrugs Anderson, lifting both his hands in defense before his comrade's glare.

"Hudson recommended him," says Watson with an air of finality. "She knows what she's doing."

"Ooooh, so the colonel said so, yes, wouldn't want to displease her," taunts Donovan.

Blatant disrespect. Everyone looks at her, disbelieving. So, atypical behavior. Her eyes don't waver, no guilt about it.

"I thought the doc showed us we could trust his judgment time and time again already!" snaps Lestrade, defensive.

"Yeah, well, not every time," she snaps back.

Heavy silence.

"If this is about Frank, stop making it about Holmes and keep it for me Donovan," calmly orders Watson, looking at his food.

"I was just..."

His eyes snap up to hers.

"Enough lieutenant! Later!" he barks.

She recoils.

"Sir."

Everyone resumes eating stiffly. Hooper looks anxious. Anderson (falsely) uncaring. Donovan chastened but still angry. Watson tense. Lestrade troubled.

Well that was interesting enough.

Sherlock forces himself to swallow a few more forkfuls of the meal to be sure his body will hold whatever lays in store for it on the morrow and is about to leave when Donovan pushes her chair back abruptly, completely pissed off, glaring daggers at Anderson.

"Bloody hell can't you take a hint? Sod off!"

Watson turns towards her and speaks loudly in a very authoritative and annoyed voice.

"Donovan what the hell?!"

"Ask that prick what the hell!" she snarls, pointing at Anderson like she wants to stab him.

Anderson gapes and seems at loss for words. The silence stretches on for a few seconds, Watson's expectant face twitching in annoyance. He huffs and finally lifts his hands in defeat.

"Will no one explain?!" he exasperatedly exclaims.

Well, if there is an invitation.

"He deliberately touched her foot under the table," shrugs Sherlock.

"What," deadpans Watson.

He doesn't understand why that made her angry. Oh well, better enlighten those poor minds.

"Yes, she was in a vulnerable position because of her grief and anger and he thought it would be a good way as any to comfort her, but the subject of their amorous quarrel being his relentless advances, it didn't really work. You see, she has her period and doesn't want to engage in sexual intercourse during it, for blood disgusts her in that situation – though she didn't tell him that – and he is being pushy, he doesn't understand why she doesn't want to copulate since he's stated he doesn't mind blood as a lubricant time and time again. Miscommunication and lack of partner observation. Can cause fights, can end relationships. I'd recommend telling the truth to your partner Donovan, and being less self-centered Anderson, not that I'm an expert in human relationships as I never bother. It's so dull and tedious. Always having to take care not to hurt the other's feelings, and for what? A few seconds of sexual release? Not exactly worth the angst and bother is it."

Sherlock punctuates taking a sip of water.

Seconds of shocked gaping, then Watson groans and closes his eyes. That triggers the explosion. Donovan jumps up and looks like she's going to hurl something at him.

"What the... How dare you!"

Anderson stands up as well.

"Watson you can't expect us to work with such a bleeding psychopath!"

"Hm, bleeding, amusing choice of words. And it's sociopath."

"Fuck," mutters Lestrade just as the captain harshly orders:

"Holmes shut up!"

Sherlock turns to him and lifts his eyebrows.

"Not good?" he asks half-sarcastically. It's obviously not good. But why does the truth affect them so?

"Bit not good no!" exclaims Watson.

Donovan is red faced and seems to be hyperventilating. Interesting. Lestrade notices as well.

"Sally, Sally breathe!" he says, tapping her arm.

She calms down enough to start shouting.

"I'm sorry Greg, sorry I can't get over what that FREAK just EXPOSED of my PERSONAL LIFE to my COLLEAGUES AND SUPERIOR when it's NO ONE'S BUSINESS!"

Now Sherlock feels like justifying his deduction.

"Anderson seemed at loss for words when you suggested Watson ask him, I was merely being helpful..."

"Holmes no," the doctor cuts him off, final.

Sherlock shrugs.

"I WANT HIM OUT."

"Donovan, please!" frowns the captain.

"No. NO. I WILL NOT WORK WITH... WITH THAT!"

She is bordering on hysterics now.

"Lestrade, if you'd be so kind..." starts Watson quietly, almost drowned by Donovan's relentless yelling.

The grey haired lieutenant stands up immediately and takes Donovan by the elbow, ushering her out of the room, trying to calm her down and rationalize with her.

"Fuck you Holmes."  
Anderson.

And Anderson leaves the room.

Watson sighs deeply, sends a resigned glance Sherlock's way, and goes away as well.

The second-lieutenant frowns. Well, that was explosive. How on earth can a few words cause something like that... Mycroft is so much better at anticipating reactions, he would've known. Ugh.

"Well, guess we get to do the dishes then!" rings out a falsely jovial mousey voice.

Sherlock nearly jumps out of his skin. Oh right. Molly Hooper. He'd forgotten all about her. The tall man glares at her.

"That isn't what the chore chart plans."

"Yeah but you could do with an apologetic action don't you think?" she asks quietly.

Sherlock mulls it over, an irritated look on his face.

"Perhaps," he finally concedes.

And if Molly ends up washing most everything, with Sherlock deducing where to put everything away, the small woman isn't the one you'll hear complaining.

Later that night, an angry conversation has taken place between Anderson and Lestrade. They fall quiet when Sherlock comes in, and after a few awkward seconds of staring, Lestrade huffs, points a warning finger at Anderson, snaps out: "Don't!" and leaves to brush his teeth.  
Sherlock takes the bed furthest from Anderson. He stares at the ceiling, trying to shut down his brain. It doesn't work. He deduces thirty-eight more things about Lestrade, amongst which he's been married multiple times, he could become an officer but doesn't want to, if he weren't in the army he'd be a policeman.... And twenty about Anderson. He has a fiancée, and it isn't Donovan. Sherlock doesn't know if he's told her that, but it's always good to have verbal ammunition and compromising material to keep his enemies in check. And from the intermittent glares he is getting, he definitely is on the man's... 'shit-list' is it? Well, definitely not on his good side.  
Lestrade turns off the lights and gets in bed with a rough "G'night" at precisely nine p.m. The other two don't answer. At a quarter past nine, Watson's steady steps go past the door, to the end of the corridor, and back to the first room on the left. At nine twenty-two, Lestrade starts snoring. At five to ten, Anderson's breathing deepens and slows. Sherlock closes his eyes and lets his body rest for the few hours his brain will let it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladidah, I dunno what I'm doing, tell me if something is so wrong you choke while reading it, and feed me back please!  
> Love y'all readers and kudos leavers and comment leavers are the bessssst. <3
> 
> I was drunk for a paragraph of this. I kept it cause it's not too blatant and it actually amused me the next day in a what-the-fuck-oh-okay-why-not way. A virtual trophy goes to whoever can guess what drunken thought weaseled its way into this fic!!!
> 
> Kisses and rainbows!


	5. A Casual Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets into trouble.  
> John gets an impromptu visitor.

The next morning is difficult. Sally has calmed down, but John can feel she still resents him when he comes to check the beds. She still doesn't talk to anyone. Hooper tries during breakfast, and it's like watching a butterfly bump repeatedly into a wall. Sally doesn't even glance at her. John hopes that it'll get better during training.  
He works them hard with team exercises. They can't go on the field immediately, they need to get a feel of each other before that's possible. And the faster the better. Donovan stays professional, thank God. It's possible she shoves Anderson a little more harshly than necessary but apart from that she stays away from Holmes.  
Holmes is good. Energetic. He anticipates the other's moves and adapts quickly. Even Anderson is forced to admit it when the taller man basically stops him from snapping his ankle, Holmes is useful. John is starting to feel optimistic about his integration to the team, but...  
In the afternoon they have strategy practice.  
...  
Yeah not the most rewarding experience of John's life. He can see how Holmes drives people crazy, cutting them off, giving his opinion and explaining his reasoning so quickly John can hardly follow and Lestrade just looks confused, scoffing at what he calls 'minor losses' in equipment because his solution would be the most effective, and 'the British Government will pay for that!', rolling his eyes obnoxiously at everyone's 'slow, average minds', actually insulting Anderson, telling him to leave because he lowers the general I.Q. of the room and almost causing some kind of fist-fight before John has the time to step in, grab Holmes as Lestrade stops Anderson from hitting him, and leave the room.  
His grip on the second-lieutenant's wrist does not lessen until he's pulled him outside.

"What? What is it?" half-snarls Holmes once his wrist is free.

"What is...?" huffs John, disbelieving. "What do you mean, what is it? You know what it is! You can't speak to them like that, you can't call them obtuse and dull and plain _stupid_! I won't stand for it! We might all be slower than you, but you have to respect that, like we have to respect your higher intellect and not call you what Donovan did yesterday!"

Holmes lifts an eyebrow.  
"A freak? I'm used to that sir."

John's face darkens.  
"You shouldn't be."

The captain starts pacing, massaging his temples, trying to ward off a headache. Sherlock looks at him, trying to read him. He's angry, but he doesn't want to throw Sherlock out. A tongue lashing, and perhaps some disciplinary action will most likely be dished out. Perhaps extra chores. Or some kind of draining physical task. Watson stops pacing.

"I will not stand for slurs or insults within my regiment."

Watson's voice is calm, but firm, steely. It sends a few shivers up Sherlock's spine. Watson actually has an impressive authority, although it isn't calculated and apparent in his every move. It's natural, which makes it even more impressive. Sherlock catches himself standing straighter and still under the shorter man's gaze. Interesting.

"Yessir."

"I want you to run twelve miles around the field in the next two and a half hours."

Predictable.

"If you or anyone else in SRR-B speaks out of turn again, I'll have to give out some way more serious punishment."

Interesting wording. Is Watson referring to corporal punishment? Sherlock _has_ been thrashed before, for trying to smuggle drugs in. It would've worked too, if Mycroft hadn't tipped the commanding officer off. But Watson, for all his short temper, doesn't seem the type...  
While he is gazing at the other man, Sherlock forgets he is being spoken to. He's brought back when the captain snaps his fingers in front of his face.

"Twelve miles Holmes! Go now!"

Sherlock straightens up and salutes. Twelve miles, how dull of the captain. He can do them in two hours and have a half-hour to spare for a shower. He starts running.

John sighs. The way Holmes stares at you is unnerving, and oddly stimulating. Makes you want to use your brain better. He should probably get used to it.  
The captain heads back to chew out Anderson for letting Holmes' words affect him before continuing the strategy training.  
Half an hour later, John goes to the kitchen while the others are to tidy and clean their equipment. He plans on filling a bottle of water for Holmes, when he hears a pointed throat clearing behind him.

"Hum hum!"

John spins around and is faced with frankly the most out of place man he's ever seen in the base. Tall-ish, slim —except around the waist— dressed in an expensive-looking suit and carrying _an umbrella_ of all things to bring in the desert.

"Civilians are not accepted on the base!" he barks, wondering where the hell that man came from and reaching for his gun.

"Oh, I am hardly that kind of civilian, captain Watson," sweetly answers the man.  
He reaches inside his waistcoat and shows his card. John blanches. Shit. That is.... Shit. He's never seen such a high clearance. He straightens rigidly and salutes.

"Pardon me sir! I was not notified of your visit! What can I do for you sir?"

"Oh no worries captain, my little visit is off the record. I've come to see how my little brother is taking to the change of landscape."

Brother? Well, there is only one new male recruit.

"Second-lieutenant Sherlock Holmes is outside at the moment, sir. Running. He insulted another man," John states firmly. Even if his brother is high, high up, Sherlock will get no preferential treatment from him.

"Ah. I see. And he obeyed?" asks the older Holmes, lifting a delicate eyebrow.

"I believe he did."

"Good, good. Well, I do hope you'll be able to handle him. If not, here is my card. Feel free to update me on my brother's actions as frequently as you like. You might even get a little... Bonus every time you do."

"And if I don't?" frowns John, staring sternly.

M Holmes lifts his eyebrows high.

"Oh I will not force you, you are his commanding officer after all."

"Yes well. Thank you for the tip sir," concedes John, putting the card in a pocket. "Now if you'll see yourself out, I was going to bring some water to Holmes."

"Ah yes. Wouldn't want him dehydrated, hm? You'd never hear the end of it. Good day Doctor Watson."

"Good bye, sir!"

"Let me remind you that not a word of this encounter is to be whispered to anyone, captain."

"Of course sir."

John salutes again, at which M nods before heading outside and being picked up by a suspiciously silent jeep. The captain shakes his head. A brother virtually at the head of the British Government. No wonder Holmes never got kicked out.

Sherlock is surprised when Watson comes outside. The sound of his steps on the dry earth had him lost in thought. Running in circles is so dull. He's only run a quarter of the way. BORING. But if he doesn't at least _pretend_ to accept Watson's authority, he'll get kicked out. Which his mouth seems to forget a lot.  
Watson seems to be carrying a bottle with him. A classic technique to put soldiers back in their place. Present them with something they want without giving it to them. Add temptation to the trial. Sherlock can suppress the feeling of thirst, so that won't affect him.  
As he runs past the captain, the bottle gets thrown at him. Sherlock catches it purely on reflex, startled. But as he turns to look at the captain, he only sees a retreating back. Hum.  
The man is a doctor, him not wanting a sun-stroked recruit on his hands does make sense. Sherlock drains the bottle and keeps running, rearranging his mind palace, taking John H. Watson out of the soldier pattern he'd expected and into the 'to observe' zone. This man might prove to be less dull than expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not very happy with this chapter, but hey, gotta write or this story will never keep going.
> 
> Sorry again for all the non realistic army stuff.
> 
> Thank you, Danel, for boosting me to write this!
> 
> Comments are life. <3


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